


Working holiday

by neveralarch



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-04
Updated: 2010-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-19 10:52:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neveralarch/pseuds/neveralarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas at the Home Office doesn't have a lot of perks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Set during The Voyage of the Damned, before Children of Earth.

Bridget stepped down the stairs carefully, mindful of the chips and wear which might cause her to lose her footing. Ten o'clock, and most people were at home, the streets nearly deserted. No more last-minute shopping; it was Christmas Eve, after all. Everyone knew there was going to be another alien attack.

She paused next to a figure huddled on the stairs, and stooped, offering one of the two cups of coffee she held in her hands.

"Your wife called," she said, careful to sound neutral.

"Oh?" said John, raising his head from the cage of his arms. "What did you tell her?"

"I said the Prime Minister had asked that you be on hand in this time of readiness. And that you'd be in after midnight."

"Good. Yes." John took the coffee out of her hands, but made no move to stand up.

After a while Bridget sat down on a slightly higher step, carefully brushing down her skirt. John gave her a glance, sipping the coffee. Bridget's was still scalding, and John was probably burning his tongue, but he didn't even wince. Probably numb from the cold.

He looked tired. Well. He always looked tired, they all did. Red-rimmed eyes, pale lips, shaking hands. The mark of the office, as the head secretary used to say before she retired and Bridget took her place. You could tell who was just marking time and who was actually doing the work just by looking at them. Anyone seeming well-rested or healthy was probably on their way out, one way or another. Fired or hired away.

John stayed. Bridget stayed. About five other people in the Home Office building behind them, the ones who hadn't opted out of the 'voluntary' directive from Downing Street.

"You should come inside," she said eventually, having watched John slowly immolate his tongue with coffee for the past two minutes.

"Yes," said John, looking out into the empty fluorescent streets. He still didn't move, and Bridget shifted a little, uncomfortable on the cold steps.

"Anna-" said John suddenly, frowning a little, "Anna's been asking me if I think I'll get a knighthood soon. Says she can't believe it, Permanent Secretary for all this time, and still not a bit of recognition."

"Really," said Bridget, still neutral. She wasn't the focus of this conversation- it was best to just let John say what he needed to to a disinterested party. It wasn't important that she thought that Anna was far too demanding and never seemed capable of recognizing the strength of the man she'd been lucky enough to marry. Give just enough responses so that John could keep going, that was the proper course.

"Oh, I don't know. It doesn't seem to matter much." John put his coffee down and clasped his long pale hands in front of him. "Rise far and fast and you just seem to fall harder. Look at Mr. Saxon." He turned suddenly, looking at Bridget, eyes fixed on her face. She found it suddenly a little hard to breathe, and wasn't quite sure why. "What do you think?"

Bridget was always surprised by the way John seemed to see her, pierce her carefully cultivated shield of efficient invisibility. She thought she ought to get used to it, but she never did. Now she struggled, unprepared, to answer his question.

"Hard work always pays in the end, I should think," she said finally, reduced to aphorisms. But it was true, wasn't it?

"Yes," said John, eyes dropping back to the stairs. "Yes, I hope it does."

  
They sat in silence for a while longer, until the bells began to toll midnight. John started, then, apparently only just becoming aware of how long he'd been sitting.

"Oh," he said. "Happy Christmas, Bridget."

"Happy Christmas, John," she replied, automatically.

John hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and kissed her cheek in the empty publicity of a deserted London.

"Ought to be heading home," he said, standing up. "All of us." He offered his hand to Bridget to help her to her feet, and she reached out a hand to take it.

His phone rang.

John scrabbled at his pockets with his right hand, pulling Bridget up with his left.

"Hello?" he said to the phone, looking apologetically at Bridget. She smiled understandingly, a little twist of the lips.

"What? Headed for Buckingham? Harkness, if you're serious- All right, yes. I don't know what we can do but- yes. Yes. I see."

He mouthed something at Bridget, but she couldn't quite make out what it was. 'Spaceship crashing into the palace' was definitely wrong.

John started walking up the stairs, coffee forgotten. Bridget collected the paper cups before following.

"Yes. Yes. _Goodbye_ , Harkness." John shut the phone, slipping it into his jacket pocket and slipping his fingers under his glasses to rub at the bridge of his nose.

"Bridget, have someone call my wife and tell her I won't be in until late. Get the Prime Minister immediately, before that. I think he's at his in-laws' party."

"Yes, sir," said Bridget.

John turned back to her briefly as he pushed open the door to the Home Office building, half of his face illuminated by the light within.

"We've got a long night ahead of us. Let's give it our best."

"Of course sir," said Bridget. "Always."


End file.
